Few activities are as delightful as learning new vocabulary
by bloodmagik
Summary: Knee injuries are a bitch when your job description emphasizes the need to be able to run away from whatever fugly-of-the-week is trying to turn you into its next meal. The brothers find themselves in the middle of a case while one of them recovers from injury. Hurt!Dean HC fic featuring Bobby
1. Chapter 1

****ON HIATUS** 15th Sept 2013**

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything to do with Supernatural. I promise to put the boys back when I'm finished playing with them.

Warnings: quite a bit of language and a few bodily fluids.

**A/N: **I've narrowed this down to being set between 2x22 AHBL-2 and 3x2 TKAA. Everything that happened up to and including 2x22 still applies but I will be going off an a tangent from 3x1-ish onwards and tweaking certain episodes from future seasons to fit in with what I have planned.

**A/N 2:The first two chapters are background reading - feel free to skip them if you want to and go straight to chapter three.**

* * *

Knee injuries are a bitch when your job description emphasizes the need to be able to run away from whatever fugly-of-the-week is trying to turn you into its next meal.

Knee injuries, especially those that are the result of a freak accident, and that require surgical intervention and months of rehab? Well, Dean doesn't have the words to describe them. Until now. It's kind of ironic given how he's spent the better part of 17 years jumping into 6 foot deep (give or take) holes without injury.

They're in Hartford, South Dakota, on a simple salt and burn that's turning out, funnily enough, to be not so simple for two reasons; First of all, their stiff isn't buried where the census says he is - according to the simple granite headstone, plot 217 is currently being occupied by the late Mrs. Ruth Strutton and not Alvin Sharman, nineteenth-century bookkeeper-turned-vigilante-extraordinaire. It takes them exactly 52 minutes to find the right plot, eyes straining to read the eroded lettering on headstones by the light of their torches as the rain beats down on them mercilessly. That's all well and good; they're used to working in conditions that would have normal people questioning their sanity. The problem is that when they finally get round to doing some digging, Alvin Sharman decides to give them a hand.

They battle it out for the right to keep watch, Dean's scissors losing to Sam's rock. _'Always with the scissors, Dean." _Any rational person would think to change after losing _Rock Paper Scissors_ as often as Dean does but then Dean's always been a shoot-now-think-later kinda guy. The upside is that digging should help generate body heat; it's colder than a witch's tit outside and the driving rain feels like needles pricking at his raw exposed skin as his shovel breaks frozen ground. They swap halfway, Sam dropping effortlessly into the hole beside his brother, sopping hair pushed back off of his face. They've been in the cemetery for almost two and a half hours by the time Sam hits the coffin, the tip of the shovel scraping against the wooden lid. They're so close to being finished; the coffin lid is open, the remains bathed in a mixture of kerosene and salt and all they have left to do is light 'em up. Now, it may not seem like it, but the Winchesters are the good guys; sure, there's the credit card fraud and the grave desecration, things which would make people think twice about labeling them as the heroes, but they're part and parcel of getting the job done without attracting attention. Alvin Sharman isn't inclined to agree.

At first, Dean's rather impressed that he's managed to land of his feet. It makes a nice change from landing head-first, which is the usual Winchester go-to when being cast aside by an angry spirit. Less impressive is the way he ends up sprawled out inside a newly dug grave, his right leg twisting unnaturally under his body when the impact, and subsequent damage to his knee, leaves him eating dirt. Pain radiates up his leg from his ankle all the way up to his hip and back again in a sickening cycle. The Winchester boys are known for being tougher than most serving soldiers but it's all Dean can do to stifle his scream when Sam hops into the hole and slowly straightens his leg, tugging gently on Dean's ankle until the kneecap snaps back into place with a _pop_. The relief is instant, at least until he tries to stand up. Dean's never been one for making his feelings known but the words that come out of his mouth would have made even their father blush had he still been alive.

The fun part is figuring out how they're going to get out of the grave with only three working legs between them. Dean's leg obstinately refuses to take his weight, leaving him flailing and, ultimately, smooshed against Sam's chest when he tries and Sam has to grab him before he face plants. They settle on Sam climbing out of the grave first so he can grab Dean under the arms and pull him up to sit on the edge of the grave in the hope that the movement won't jostle Dean's rapidly swelling knee. They've already agreed that what happens in Hartford, stays in Hartford because having your baby brother lift you like you're made of air? Well, its just downright embarrassing. Especially when your name is Dean Winchester.

Sam knows it's bad when Dean doesn't insist on stripping out of his wet clothes before getting into the car. Their dad used to say that was a sign of the Apocalypse, Dean allowing his precious car to be sullied without attempting to remove at least one of the offender's extremities. Sam is rather attached to his head so he leans his limpit of a brother against the passenger door before going in search of the old army blankets they keep in the trunk. The fact that Dean doesn't even offer up a token protest when Sam wraps him up like a burrito makes Sam's next move an easy one. Dean spends the ride to the Emergency Room with both hands wrapped around his sore knee. "It's like there's nothing keeping my leg in line, Sammy," is how he describes it when he finally takes a break from trying to grind his teeth down to the bone. Between Dean wearing down his enamel and cursing like a trooper every time Sam turns a corner (and he's driving like a lady of the older generation here, not like Lewis Hamilton as Dean would have you believe), Sam's just about ready to knock Dean out just to get a bit of peace. The Emergency Room entrance sign has never been such a welcoming sight.

* * *

It's kind of funny how quickly Dean goes from cursing the slightest movement to attempting to brush off the severity of his injury when the pretty nurse appears at the passenger door with a wheelchair. It's also kind of funny how Dean manages exactly one and a half steps before he grudgingly admits defeat and sinks into the chair with as much dignity as he can scrape together, which isn't much. Nearly passing out when his leg is accidently knocked against the frame of the wheelchair? Well, that's just not very dignified, is it? It turns out that dignity has seen fit to desert him for the evening and isn't that just typical. His so-called 'lucky jeans' (he's seriously reconsidering that name because it appears that they are actually anything but) are refusing to slide over his knee, which is now the size of a small football, and he's forced to suffer the indignity of having them cut off by a nurse who looks suspiciously like a female version Bobby but without the trucker hat and not the pretty little thing who helped him out of the car. And, of course, this not being Dean Winchester's day, the nurse manages to cut through a good bit of the leg of his boxers as well. Now, Dean Winchester is not known, in hunting circles anyway, for being shy when it comes to his body and sex in general. Sam's lost count of the number of time he's had to choose to walk away or risk being scarred for life by Dean's rather explicit descriptions, so the fact that his brother, who has been known to leave him more or less stranded during his searches for a little '_R and R'_ (_if you catch my drift, Sammy. Nudge nudge, wink wink._), is freaking out at the thought of being stripped of his boxers by a woman old enough to be their mother? Well, that's something than Sam isn't going to forget, at least not any time in the near future.

Dean is seconds away from taking his chances with whatever the hell it is he's managed to do to his knee. When this disaster-of-a-job is over, he's nominating Bobby-But-As-A-Woman for a Darwin Award because, seriously, there's no way she could have cut his freakin' boxers off if she'd bloody well tried. He generally draws the line at flashing his junk at strangers in semi-public places, at least when he's sober, and most definitely when it involves being left to sit bare-assed_ naked_ in a room that's currently being occupied by his baby brother. Running away or, at least, hopping away whilst dragging his mangled leg behind him is starting to sound like a really good idea. If he can just figure out how to distract Sam long enough to high-tail it outta there...

* * *

It's a well-known fact amongst those in the medical profession that Low Energy Tibial Plateau fractures are most commonly found in women over the age of 50 and then, mostly in those who show signs of brittle bone disease, or osteoporosis. Dean Singer is, it's fair to say, neither pre-menopausal nor a woman, so his explanation that he stepped off of a high step and then slipped, twisting his knee in the process isn't particularly plausible. A far more likely explanation for this type of High Energy injury in a male of Dean's age would be a motor vehicle accident where a pedestrian is struck by a vehicle's bumper and falls to one side, or a fall from a significant height; being tossed into a fresh grave and stupidly landing on your feet is apparently a perfect example of this although it's not the one the doctor goes with when she finally appears with the results of Dean's x-rays and CT scans. The boys are both well versed in the language of broken bones; God only knows they've seen more than enough of them in their lifetimes given the nature of their job. Thankfully, it's always been a case of resetting whatever bone has taken the brunt of the dead guy's (or, on occasion, gal's) frustrations and getting the hell outta dodge before someone realises that the insurance they're using isn't worth the price of the bit of paper it's written on. For guys whose family has always had a seemingly endless run of bad luck, they've been surprisingly... well, lucky, but given the day Dean's been having, Sam wouldn't be at all surprised if their so-called lucky streak came to an abrupt halt right there and then in their tiny curtained cubicle.

His brother just can't seem to catch a break ('scuse the pun).

Now, Dean has spent enough time in Emergency Rooms over the years to know how things are supposed to work, and now is probably the right time to point out that the words '_supposed to'_ are key.

He's sat through all the questions, allowed the doctor (who, by the way, looks about 12. What the hell is up with that...?) to poke and prod at his knee to her hearts content and put it through several range-of-motion exercises. He's been downright _gracious_ to the nurses, at least up until the bit where Nurse Ratchet left him sitting with just a square of material covering his junk (a position he'd hoped to never find himself in with his brother in the same room) and he didn't swear at the Radiographer when she twisted his leg to get the last X-ray (and boy, did he want to, because it really fucking _hurt_). Now all he has to do is wait for the doctor-slash-girl-scout to come back and shoot him up full of the good stuff so he can be on his way. I should probably add that, at this point, Dean truly believes that his injury is minor, relatively speaking of course. The fact that his leg refuses to take his weight is neither here nor there; they've dealt with worse than a sprained knee in the comfort of their motel room before and lived to tell the tale.

The first _'supposed to'_ that goes scurrying down the rabbit hole is, of course, the one that would eventually have resulted in the Winchester brothers leaving Sioux Falls in search of their next job, wherever that may have been. Doctors are _supposed _to have folders with X-ray and CT films with them when they brush past the flimsy green privacy curtain without knocking. They're _supposed _to snap their patient's films onto the light box on the wall so that geeky little brothers know what they're going to be dealing with (and whether it's something they need to research to stop big brother pulling the wool over little brother's eyes).

What they are _not_ supposed to do, is lean casually against the bank of cupboards on the wall across from their patient before telling them that, basically, their leg is fucked.

"Fucked" is, of course, not the word that the doctor uses to describe what Dean has done to his knee but she might as well have for the amount of detail she goes into.

_"It's broken, pretty badly actually."_

Well, to borrow a phrase from Dean: Thank you, Captain Obvious. Sam doesn't have a fancy medical degree but even he can tell that Dean's leg is broken and that's without looking at any of the X-rays or CT scans, which will apparently not be joining them for the remainder of this discussion.

_"I've scheduled a consultation with orthopedics in the morning."_

Looks like Fucked (with a capital F) is right after all.

And with that bombshell, the doctor takes her leave before the Winchester boys can fully process the information, and maybe that's a good thing, because the look on Dean's face (sheer annoyance with just a hint of incredibility) might suggest that he is not best pleased with the whole broken-leg-have-to-wait-for-orthopedics situation. And, to be fair, Sam isn't either; surgery means having to stick around the Sioux Falls area while Dean recovers. It means follow-up appointments which, in turn, means a possible paper trail which could be just a little bit... uh, problematic, given that they have a certain contact in town who doesn't have the option of leaving (or faking his own death) should things go to shit. Speaking of said local contact, Sam's decided that it might be a good idea to give him a heads up because Bobby's already pretty well known to the local law enforcement and there's always the possibility that the boys' current insurance cards could raise a few questions. Well, that's the main reason anyways. There's also be the fact that Sam's gonna need somewhere to crash while Dean's in the hospital and Singer Salvage just happens to be a convenient 30-minute drive away. It's also the closest thing to a home that the boys have ever known.

* * *

One of the worst things about being admitted to hospital when you're not _A_, unconscious or _B_, high as a kite, is the fact that you're forced to willingly submit to a seemingly endless procession of exercises that have been specifically designed to cause the maximum amount of indignity and humiliation. That's what it's starting to look like, to Dean anyways. Sam, the little shit, has left him in the capable hands of Nurse Ratchet (capable? Who's he trying to kid?) so he can go and let Bobby know that he'll be stopping by once Dean's settled in for the night (_'M not a frickin' kid, Sam. Don't need you here to hold my hand')_.

Humiliation Exercise Number One involves a flimsy hospital gown and a rather disturbing lack of privacy. Let me put a question to you; Have you ever tried taking off your pants whilst standing on one leg and one leg only? And one more if I may; Have you ever tried taking off your pants when the one leg you're standing on just so happens to be the only one that will take any weight? You see, the problem with having just the one working leg is that you're pretty much screwed when it comes to getting your pants off over your foot. Because that foot? Well, it's the only thing keeping you upright and that's just downright unfortunate, especially when the woman tasked with removing your pants (and your mangled underwear) looks like Kathy Bates and not Angelina Jolie. **  
**

Exercise Number Two; Well, let's just say that the words _cup_ and _sample_ were mentioned and leave it at that (because being wheeled through the Emergency department in a girly diamond-patterned hospital gown that barely covers your ass apparently isn't embarrassing enough). _  
_

'_Bad things come in groups of three.'_ It's something that happens far too often to be fueled by superstition alone. Sam, the freak that he is, gets off on spouting information; if he were still in the cubicle he'd be going on and on about something called _Divine Perfection _and how the world consists of trinities within trinities (whatever that's supposed to mean. It sounds like some sort of porn for nerds) and then there would be something about God and the Devil, and Heaven and Hell. To be honest, Dean would probably have stopped listening after the first _Divine Perfection _because that shit right there? That's the reason why Sam _really_ needs to get laid_._

What makes this third and final incident so humiliating is the fact that the Winchester brothers are not strangers to being stuck with needles; It isn't unusual for them to play medic in the aftermath of a hunt when the only relief available comes in the form of an illicit bottle of JD or, in times of desperation, a knock-out blow to the head. So, it would be fair to say that, given this information, the only word that could possibly be used to describe a Winchester _fainting_ after having an IV cannula put in his hand would be 'mortifying'. Especially when said Winchester's little brother ducks through the gap in the privacy curtain just in time to see him puking liquid paracetamol (yes, really) over the side of the bed because bad things? They don't believe in upper limits when it comes to Dean Winchester.

* * *

Dean's starting to wonder when someone is going to let him know what the hell is going on. It is his leg that might be getting cut open after all. Surely that counts for something? Getting information that could actually be of some use is like trying to get blood out of a fucking stone. It's all _maybe's_ and _possibly's _and _supposed to's _and Dean's just about had it up to here with this shit because waiting around _sucks_. Spending the night trying to smother yourself with your own pillow because the guy in the bed across from you sounds like a friggin' freight train and you can't walk away to get a little peace and quiet _sucks_. Having to fast (9 hours, 24 minutes and counting...) because no-one can (or is willing to) tell you if and/or when you're having surgery _sucks_. _Everything just fucking sucks, okay, Sam?_

The majority of the information they get from the orthopedic surgeon is about as useful to them as boobs on a man. Dean _might_ be having the surgery today (awesome, more fasting). They _may_ be able to fix the break with pins rather than having to resort to using something more substantial. At least this guy sticks around long enough for Sam to do what he does best and that, ladies and gentlemen, is ask questions. Lots and lots of questions. Now, the Winchesters are used to being told things they don't particularly want to hear; it's an occupational hazard when the creatures they hunt have an annoying habit of breaking rules or making them up as and when they feel like it. The Winchesters are nothing if not adaptable. It doesn't make the what the surgeon has to say any easier to hear.

Five months. _Five whole fucking months_ before he's likely to be able to start doing what the surgeon calls 'normal activities'. Oh, and did he mention the possible added bonus of early onset post-traumatic arthritis due to something called 'displacement' affecting the cartilage that makes up the knee joint? There's also the risk of the joint remaining unstable even after surgical intervention and the possibility of range of motion in the affected knee being noticeably reduced. Talk about doing a proper job of something. Dean's gonna be in rehab until he's 30 at this rate unless whichever unearthly being tasked with pissing on the Winchesters' fortunes has a dramatic change of heart. Or unicorns riding on silver moonbeams start shooting rainbows out of their imaginary behinds. Whichever one comes first.

Amateur dramatics aside, Dean's only got 10 months left before the hellhounds come for him. Neither of them planned on him spending half of that stuck sitting on his ass.


	2. Chapter 2

**-Warnings**: some slightly graphic descriptions and language. A few crude moments.

* * *

It's another day and half before they get round to taking Dean to theatre. To say he's grouchy is an understatement. Fluctuating sugar levels, courtesy of fasting on and off for the last 48 hours, have left him headache-y and with the disposition of a grizzly with a big ass mother of a thorn in its paw. And then, on top of that, there's the lack of sleep thanks to the irritating sleeping habits of the other patients on his ward and the annoyance of the IV catheter that caused him so much embarrassment down in the Emergency Room refusing to stay in, and bleeding all over on the bed sheets. Dean's used to functioning on just a few hours rest; It's just another one of those occupational hazards that you learned to deal with by catching the odd 20 minutes here and there in between researching and interviewing witnesses. He's never had to try sleeping through 2 lots of snoring, one guy talking in his sleep and someone else crying out because of the pain in their arm or leg or whatever, and thank god for that because it's actually impossible. And this is coming from a guy who's been known to sleep in some rather unconventional places. Relief doesn't even begin to describe what Dean feels when the sweet little student nurse tells him that his surgery has been scheduled for half past eight the next morning (assuming no emergencies come in overnight) even though it means that he'll be fasting again from midnight. The sooner his leg is fixed, the better because this not-being-able-to-get-away-from-things-and-slash-o r-people-that-are-annoying-before-he-punches-them shit is getting old real fast.

He's not sure why but he feel a jolt of something, adrenaline or disappointment maybe, when eight thirty comes and goes, and he's still sat on the ward with only Sam and the cast of Grumpy Old Men for company. He and Sam are the youngest people in the room by 35 years, give or take, but that doesn't stop Grumpy Old Man Number One from zeroing in on Sam and trying to drag him into a particularly heated debate on the pros and cons of the _World Wide Web_ while Dean stares at the cracks in the ceiling tiles above his bed and silently begs for someone,_ anyone_, to put him out of his misery before he snaps and ends up being thrown into a padded cell by the men in white coats. On the other hand, a padded cell would be nice and quiet... No, he's being ridiculous. He'll be out of this hell-hole-pretending-to-be-a-hospital just as soon as the anesthetic has worn off even if he has to slide himself along the corridor on his ass to get down to the main door. Hopefully it won't come to that because Sam already looks as if he's been sucking on a lemon all morning - Dean hates to think what he's gonna look like when he finds out about Dean's plan to sign himself out the minute he wakes up. Dean just won't tell him until he's got the forms in his hand; After all, Sam can't say no if he doesn't know anything about what Dean's planning on doing.

* * *

You'd think that someone who makes a living sticking people with needles (and then sending them off to sleep) would be something of an expert after who-knows-how-many years of practice. The first IV cannula misses its target, encouraging the bubbly young nurse to dig around under the fragile skin on Dean's left hand in what can only be described as a clumsy attempt at finding the vein while he grits his teeth and wills himself to not snatch his hand away. It's a relief when the second needle, this one in the crook of his right arm, meets no resistance and slides into home with just a small pinch. It just goes to show how much a lack of sleep can affect the way a person functions because Dean usually has the reflexes of a cat on speed and jumping when the nurse reaches under the neck of his gown to stick an electrode just below where his collarbone meets his right shoulder is not a reaction befitting of a hunter with Dean's extensive training. His dad would be so proud... That aside, there's no way that pissing off the woman who's in charge of pumping you full of delightful coma-inducing drugs can end well, even if said pissing off is unintentional. So Dean takes a deep breath and then another one just to be sure he's still in control of the roller-coaster he's somehow found himself riding on, and forces himself not to react when the nurse tugs at the neck of his hospital gown and attaches the remaining electrode to the left side his chest without so much as a 'how d'you do?". It's slightly unnerving, being prepped for surgery by a young girl who looks like she'd be better suited to spending daddy's money on the latest designer handbag or shoes than being responsible for someone's well-being while they're under the effects of anesthesia. The mere thought is enough to make him feel slightly panicky; Dean'll take emergency surgery over planned any day - in an emergency there's generally not enough time to worry about whether your anesthetist is more interested in channelling her inner Barbie doll than making sure you don't flat-line on the table and there's something oddly comforting about that in a messed-up, twisted kind of way. Or maybe it's just Dean who thinks like that, who knows?

The oxygen flowing through the face mask is cool and, more importantly, moist. It's the glass slipper to Dean's Cinderella, the Prince Charming to his Snow White and yes, he's well aware that the random Disney references make him sound more than a little bit gay (which he most definitely is _not_...). His throat's so dry it's almost painful (like what he imagines swallowing a razor blade would feel like) and although the moisture is helping to soothe the fire in his throat, he'd give his right hand for just a sip of water, pulmonary aspiration (whatever that is) and post-operative vomiting be damned. Sadly, the anesthetist doesn't agree, choosing instead to inject the two syringes into the IV port in his arm while Dean grits his teeth against the invasive feeling of the medication inching up towards his shoulder. Being put to sleep doesn't seem to happen the way everyone tells you it does; It doesn't feel like gently 'drifting off' to sleep as you count backwards from 100. It's more like passing out, given the way that your vision suddenly starts to tunnel and your eyes roll into the back of your head mere seconds after the drugs are administered. Dean makes it all the way to 97 before the anesthetic drags him under.

Touch is usually the first sensation to return during emergence from a general anesthetic; The softness of the blanket on his bare skin and the unusual feeling of heaviness that envelopes his whole body until all he want to do is give in to the darkness that's threatening from the sidelines. The agonizing pressure of someone's knuckles bearing down into the sensitive skin over his sternum. Sound is the next thing to penetrate the swirling fog, disjointed snippets of speech that skim the surface and disappear again before they can be carefully rearranged into an order that makes some sort of sense.

_'Dean...__ up... you've... time to... your brother... enough...'_

None of it makes a lick of sense.

The voice is insistent and accompanied by a second round sternum-knuckling that causes the comforting haze to shatter into thousands of glittering shards, and slams him abruptly back into consciousness. The best metaphor to describe it would be this; Try to imagine that you're swimming - in a lake or a pool, it doesn't really make a difference to the end result - and that you're right down at the bottom of the water. You can feel the air draining from your lungs so you decide to head to the surface for air but you're so deep down that you start to struggle before you get anywhere near. Your lungs are burning, your muscles crying out for oxygen as you try to push yourself faster and faster, all too aware of the way your vision is starting to fade out around the edges. The first breath of air surges through your body with the force of a freight train, leaving you with the all of the dexterity of a wet noodle while you try to slow the erratic _thud thud_-ing of your heart against your ribs. Yeah, waking up is kind of like that but with a few optional extras.

It's perfectly normal for the body to crave sleep after being put through something as traumatic as major surgery. Having two surgical-grade titanium plates and eight screws drilled into the head of your tibia certainly falls into that category but it's almost as if Dean's body didn't get that particular memo. His leg is starting to feel as though its stuck in a clamp now that the painkillers from the surgery have started to wear off; Its kind of ironic that the operation to fix his broken leg has made it feel ten times worse than it did after the fall that did the damage. He's starting to regret sending Sam away under the pretense of trying to get some rest without thinking to ask his brother to clock him one - he's pretty sure that he looks miserable enough for Sam to not only sympathize, but agree to punch him too. Had he been in a private room he would have insisted that Sam put him out of his misery, but on the ward they have a permanent audience and there's absolutely no way that the nurses will approve of Dean's so-called 'master plan' should they happen to walk in on Sam trying whack his brother around the head. Spoilsports... Being offered plain old Paracetamol when the pain is so bad that he ends up heaving and spitting slimy strings of bile into a flimsy cardboard bowl is frankly just insulting, but until the doctor is sure it's not going to have an effect on the amount of pain he's in, it's all he's gonna get and that's just frickin' _awesome_.

Attempting to puke up the lining of your stomach is apparently rather off-putting to the other residents when they're in the middle of eating lunch so the curtains are drawn around Dean's bed while he spews a pitiful amount water and partially digested paracetamol caplets, and wonders what the hell he did in a past life that was so deserving of something as horrible as this. He must look ten kinds of pathetic because one of the nurses, a motherly-looking blonde with wide hips and kind eyes, takes pity on him and sits with him, gently rubbing circles over the rigid muscles in his back as he coughs and splutters over the basin being held under his chin. Now, we all know that Dean isn't one for being waited on hand and foot and that the mere idea is usually more than enough to send him hightailing it for the sanctity of his beloved Impala; Well, there are no such things as personal space or privacy when you're too busy trying to not make good on your body's purging mission to notice that you've managed to get pre-vomit drool all over your chin. Attempted self-evisceration generally tends to takes precedence over spit-covered body parts which, while slightly disgusting, can be wiped clean after you've succeeded in vomiting up all of your internal organs or found someone who's willing to put you out of your misery for a small fee. There is an upside to the whole upchucking-on-yourself incident; You're probably thinking '_thank god, because it's about time that poor old Dean had a bit of luck given everything that's happened to him over the last two and a half days,' _and rightly so. The upside just happens to be drugs; nausea-reducing, pain-relieving and, most importantly,_ sleep_-inducing drugs. Dean would kiss the syringe-wielding goddess but A, he's just spent the last 23 minutes gagging and spitting bile into a cardboard bowl held by said goddess and B, it wouldn't really be appropriate because, well, see point A.

While we're on the subject of inappropriate behavior, Dean is just about to have his personal space violated, and not in a good spent-the-night-at-a-bar-drinking-purple-nurples- and-getting-frisky-with-a-beautiful-dancer-and-her -twin-sister kind of way. Violation number one is relatively minor; Wiping food/spit/blood/vomit (delete as and when appropriate) off of someone's face with a damp washcloth is second nature when your job involves caring for the infirm whether they be ill or injured or simple unable to care for themselves, so Dean lets the indiscretion go without relieving the nurse of the use of her hand even though that would be second nature _to him. _God only knows he's done the same thing to Sam too many times to count. The second personal-space-slash-privacy violation involves a certain part of Dean's anatomy that has seen far too much daylight (or, if you want to be pedantic, artificial light) in recent days; When you've literally just had surgery on what essentially allows your leg to move without the joint falling out at either side, it's not a good idea to bend said body part or put pressure on the newly formed and tender scar tissue. Likewise, it's not a good idea to go to sleep, drugged or not, lying on your back when you feel like you could hurl again any minute. So Dean ends up lying on his left side in a modified version of the recovery position with his left leg bent at the knee and several thin pillows separating it from the injured one resting on top. Injury to the tibial plateau affects the stability and integrity of the knee joint. In the weeks following surgery, it can be impossible for a patient to do things as simple as roll over in bed without any help and then, it can be extremely uncomfortable without the correct support. It's because of this that the nurse gets a little bit too close to Dean's junk for comfort. Bending his left knee causes the bottom of his hideous hospital gown to ride up several centimeters. Add to this the fact that the cloth brace around his right leg goes up as far as two thirds of the way up his thigh and you've got the beginnings of a rather awkward situation. The nurse positions his left leg once he's flopped over onto his side by hooking her fingers around the back of his knee and pulling it towards her until it's bent at an appropriate angle. The pillows being used for support snag on the hem of Dean's hideously patterned hospital gown so it gets unceremoniously pushed further and further up his thighs until he's in danger of flashing a rather inappropriate expanse of skin at a member of staff for the second time in as many days. More awkward still is the way the nurse tugs the pillows higher under his sore leg so that the brace doesn't dig into the delicate skin on the inside of his thighs, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that her hands are just inches away from making physical contact with her patient's balls. So yeah, awkward pretty much covers it.

* * *

Dean always considered himself to be in pretty good shape. Okay, maybe it's been a while (years) since he voluntary went for a run and he can't really remember the last time he put something in his mouth that wasn't processed or from a back-road diner, but still... Digging graves and running away from seriously pissed off fuglies that want nothing better than to turn him into their next meal has always been more than enough to stop him packing on the pounds. Grave digging is actually a surprisingly thorough workout. I mean, just _look_ at his abs - you don't get abs and obliques like his by poncing around in a big fancy gym, and that's why Dean finds himself feeling a little bit disheartened when he ends up sweating and out of breath after hobbling just a few meters along the length of the ward on his shiny new crutches. The physiotherapist is a misleadingly tiny brunette with the can-do attitude of a Navy Seal and the upper body strength of Arnold Schwartzenegger hidden beneath her navy polo shirt. It's strange to think that this diminutive slip of a woman, who can't be a millimeter over 5'2, is the only thing keeping Dean upright at the moment, and he's not exactly what you'd call dainty at 6'0 and 180 pounds. He's thankful for her steadying grip on his biceps as he lowers himself into the inviting chair at the side of his bed; The last thing he wants is to end up doing more damage now that freedom is no longer a desperately distant speck on the horizon. Speaking of distant specks, sleep is starting to look a whole lot closer and Dean is seriously considering sleeping for a month (or at least until dinner) now that it's no longer an impossibility. Except that Connie apparently expects him to get up and keep practicing. _Shit... _Whoever came up with this _no pain, no gain_ shit should be shot. He can't help but snort at Connie's mnemonic to help him remember what to do with his legs during his faltering attempt at hauling himself up the short flight of stairs just outside the ward. _The good leg goes to heaven, the bad leg goes to hell. _It's actually rather fitting considering where he'll be going if they don't find a way to get him out of his deal. If only Connie knew...

* * *

Dean gets out of the hospital the next day, much to the relief of both him and his brother. The solid cloth brace has been swapped for a hinged one with straps that hook at one side so that he's able to keep his knee supported while he bends it. The brace is annoying him already and he's only had it for a few hours; If he tightens the straps while he's sitting down, the brace slips down the within minutes of him standing up and the straps press against his surgical scars and the big numb patch below his knee cap. It was only when the nurse unwrapped the flesh-coloured bandage that Dean realised just how much damage was done when he fell; There are actually two incision sites, not just the one that he'd been expecting. The first scar goes down the middle of his leg in line with the front of his shin bone, starting at the dimple beneath his knee cap and extending almost a third of the way down the front of his leg. The second scar is even bigger - he has to twist round to the side to see where the scar follows the curve of his leg at a 90 degree angle to the first incision. It's actually a little unnerving to think that this guy has basically peeled back a large chunk of his leg to get to the bone underneath.

He's been sent on his way with enough painkillers to stock a pharmacy (Ibruprofen, Paracetamol, Cocodamol and Oxycodone) and strict instructions that the nurse made sure to repeat to Sam before letting Dean out of her sight - Dean's not sure where she got the idea that he can't be trusted given that he's been positively saint-like over the last four days. Okay, there may have been one teeny tiny little swear word that may have accidentally slipped out after Connie the physio insisted that he master the art of climbing the stairs before being set free, but other than that he's been an absolute angel and anyways, how difficult is it to remember to take a bunch of pain killers and anti-inflammatories every couple of hours? Other than popping pills like they're M&Ms, the only things he needs to do is keep the clear plastic-y dressing covering his incisions on for another week and be able to bend his knee 90 degrees by the time he goes back for the first of many follow-up appointments in 6 weeks time. He doesn't really need Sam to help him with either of those things so the nurse telling his brother is merely an exercise in futility, but if it makes Sam feel better about the whole not-being-able-hunt-for-5-months thing then what the hell... His knee refuses to bend far enough to fit under the Impala's dash so he's relegated to the back bench seat for the 30 minute drive to Singer Salvage, where Bobby is insisting they stay for as long as they need to. There's almost no doubt that Dean will be talked into manning the phones or helping to do research for some of the many hunters who turn to Bobby for hard-to-come-by information while Sam buries himself under a mountain of lore the size of Everest and, in fact, that's exactly what the boys are doing when their latest hunt drops straight into their laps.

* * *

_I think that's going to be the best place to leave that chapter. I should hopefully have the next one up by the end of next week._

_Please let me know what you think. :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Case!fic starts here. Earlier I said that you could skip straight to this chapter so here's what you need to know.  
_

Azazel captured Sam. Sam died at Cold Oak. Dean made a deal with the crossroads Demon to bring Sam back. The Winchesters killed Azazel.

Dean broke his leg in a silly accident on a routine salt-and-burn near Bobby's. Broken leg required surgery to fix and Dean was told he couldn't hunt for five months. The boys stay with Bobby once Dean gets out of the hospital.

_You still with me? Okay then, here we go..._

_I should probably add that any and all mistakes are my own since I don't have a beta._

* * *

_Five and a half weeks l__ater..._

"Aren't you s'posed to be doing those exercises the doctor gave ya?"

Dean looked up from the musty ancient textbook on Bobby's desk to see its owner studying him from the open doorway and he deliberately dropped his gaze to the elaborately decorated W adorning the open page of the manuscript on the table in front of him.

"I already did them."

He flipped the page over with more force than necessary and the audible ripping sound that followed made him cringe; He didn't dare move from where he was hunched over the vandalised text.

"You about done taking your frustration out on that book, boy? 'Coz last time I checked, ripping pages out of six hundred year old textbooks wasn't written anywhere in your discharge instructions. And I should know because I just checked."

Bobby leaned back against the door frame and folded his plaid-clad arms over his chest without taking his eyes off of the younger hunter. A few seconds passed before Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair, accusing eyes coming up to meet Bobby's steady gaze.

"You're as bad as Sam, you know that?" He dropped his pen on his legal pad before continuing. "I already got one mother hen clucking at me about those stupid exercises - I don't need you going on at me about them as well."

Bobby uncrossed his arms and shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall. "You find anything in that book before you decided it wasn't worth being kept in one piece?" He crossed over to the desk and pulled Dean's notepad over, ignoring the way Dean rolled his eyes at the caustic tone. Black scribbles covered the page and Bobby leaned over the top of it as he scanned the information Dean had found in the old tome - there wasn't anything there that they didn't already know. He sighed as he stood upright and pushed the notepad back across the desk to Dean while he ran through the titles in his library of rare and unusual manuscripts in his head. The information they needed was probably sitting right in front of their proverbial noses, as was so often the case.

"I'm sorry, Bobby." Dean looked up from where he was doodling at the bottom of his notes, green eyes suddenly full of remorse. "Y'know, about the book..."

"Forget it, boy." Bobby waved his hand at Dean in a dismissive gesture and readjusted his trucker hat, running his free hand through his thinning hair before replacing the ever-faithful article and turning towards the door. "I'm thinking there's squat in that book 'bout Djinn that we don't already know, so why don'tcha take a break while I go see if there's anything in my collection that could actually be of some use?" He stopped when he reached the doorway and turned to look over his shoulder at Dean, who was still sitting behind the desk. "What're you waiting for, boy, the Appocalypse? Move your ass before that leg seizes up and your brother starts his bitching."

He made it into the hall before the scraping of the chair against the floor and Dean's grumbles of 'Yeah, yeah... I'm coming, hold your goddamn horses' reached his ears and he paused until he heard the metallic _snick_ of Dean's crutches on the wooden floor before continuing through the house to the library in search of another source of information. He was 99.9 percent sure he knew where to find what they were looking for before he made it to the end of the hall.

* * *

The Orthopedics clinic at Sioux Falls General was down a long narrow corridor just off the main atrium and the waiting room was surprisingly busy; The systematic rows of orange plastic chairs housed a large number of kids sporting garish neon plaster casts and several iron-haired ladies in supportive walking boots and braces. Dean tapped his brother on the shin with his left crutch and tilted his head towards two empty chairs at the end the front row closest to the wall.

"Go grab us those seats in the corner while I go check in."

He watched as Sam crossed the room and dropped bonelessly into the chair on the left. His brother then slid further down in the seat, shoving his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket and stretching his long denim-clad legs out into large space in front of him while he waited for Dean to sign in for his appointment. Less than a minute later Sam was pushing himself back up so that Dean wouldn't trip over his legs trying to get to his seat. He held his hand out and Dean automatically handed over his crutches before bracing himself against the wall and slowly pivoting round so he could sit with his braced leg against the wall where Sam wouldn't accidentally knock it; Dean had been furious and chased (hobbled after) him around Bobby's kitchen wielding one of his crutches as a weapon the first time it had happened. It wasn't a situation that Sam wanted to repeat.

"Dude, this waiting room is like a breeding ground for germs."

Dean turned to look at his brother in confusion as he slowly lowered himself into his seat. He leaned forwards to take his crutches from Sam and carefully propped them against the wall next to himself before looking along the row at the focus of Sam's attention - a little boy with a bright blue cast on his arm and suspiciously runny nose. The kid looked so much like a younger Sam that Dean found himself watching, smiling as wooden blocks were carefully considered and then pushed through correspondingly shaped holes into a plastic container, and he started when Sam elbowed him in the side. He scowled, retaliating by punching his brother hard on the shoulder and then leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and snorting at the look of disgust on Sam's face.

"Relax, salad boy. With the amount of healthy crap you eat, anything remotely infectious will just slide off." He paused, hooking his fingers under the straps of his brace and pulling until his knee was bent. "Since when are you such a germaphobe, anyways? I mean, c'mon man," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "We were elbow-deep in some dude's chest cavity a few weeks ago when we were in Aquinnah and now you're getting all worked up over a bit of snot?"

Sam turned to look at his brother, his face contorting. "That was totally different, Dean! I - "

"Yeah, whatever, man." Dean shrugged and then rolled his eyes at his brother's bitch-face. "Seriously, Sam, just relax, would you? We've - " He turned in response to his name being called and pushed himself up, taking his crutches from where they'd been propped them against the wall before turning to face his brother. His tone was gentle.

"Sam, we've dealt before and, whatever happens, we'll find a way to deal again." He paused and then grinned, gesturing toward the bulky brace on his right leg. "Wish me luck, dude. I'm getting rid of this freakin' thing even if it means you carrying me outta here."

Sam snorted and slid down in his chair, stretching out now that Dean was no longer in danger of tripping over his long legs and face-planting. "Never gonna happen, Dean... Not in a million years."

* * *

_Four days later..._

"I told you that waiting room was a breeding ground for germs."

Dean tried to summon the energy to flip Sam off; It wasn't easy given how goddamn awful he felt but, somehow, he found the strength to raise his arm off of the plain blue comforter and respond to his brother's flippant comment accordingly. It was pathetic how the simple movement left him tired. He let his arm drop to the mattress with a thud and rolled his head across his pillow to glare at Sam, who was watching him from the edge of his own bed.

"You jinxed me." His voice was barely a whisper by the time he got to the end of the short sentence, "I blame you, you an' that kid from the clinic." He let his eyes slide shut and groaned when swallowing left him feeling like he'd swallowed a razor blade.

"_I jinxed you_..." Dean could hear the smirk in Sam's voice and he squinted at the figure to his right until the blurred lines of his brother's silhouetted form began to clear. Scowling, he fumbled on the bedside table and his wandering hand collided with something solid, knocking the object over onto its side. His palm brushed over the item, fingers wrapping themselves around the body when it met with his needs and he feebly launched it in the general direction of the offending voice. The loud thud a few seconds later told him that his water-bottle-turned-missile had missed its target.

"_Real_ mature, Dean." Sam leaned forwards to pick the bottle up off the floor, "It's hardly my fault your immune system has the integrity of that of a two-year-old's." He set it back on the table between the two bed and turned to look at the lump occupying the bed closest to the door. "You know that green crap you're always taking the piss out of me for eating? Maybe you should try some of it every once in a while." He ducked as Dean's pillow went sailing over his head and forced himself to breathe out slowly through his nose before continuing, "You're such a child."

He stood and dropped the stray pillow on his brother's head, smirking when Dean batted it away from his face irritably and glowered up at him.

"Go away, Sam, or I swear to God I'll - "

Sam rolled his eyes and cut his brother off before he could finish outlining the threats he intended to act out should it become necessary.

"Or you'll what, lick my spoon? Accidentally 'borrow' my toothbrush without telling me?"

"Don't tempt me, Sam, you know I will." Dean rolled to the side and draped the pillow over his head. His voice was muffled and Sam had to strain to hear him.

"Now go away and let me die in peace."

Dean cringed beneath the cool cotton of the pillowcase the minute the words left his mouth. He could practically feel the tension radiating from across the room in a mass of unrelenting waves and he pushed himself up on an elbow, dislodging the pillow as he turned to look apologetically at his brother.

"Sam, I - "

"Don't, Dean. Just... don't." Sam shook his head, refusing to shift his gaze from a knot in one of the floorboards and running a hand through his hair in an ineffective attempt at getting it out of his eyes. "I'm gonna go see if Bobby needs a hand with anything." He glanced across at his brother from underneath his bangs before moving towards the door.

"Feel better."

Sam pulled the door closed behind him, the snib clicking into place with a quiet _snick_ and Dean let himself fall back onto the bed. He brought his hands up to rest over his eyes and he sighed, rubbing his fingers over his aching temples. A sudden surge of anger swelled up inside of him and he flung his arms down, slamming his fisted hands against the soft mattress another two times before the unwanted rush of emotion started to dissipate. He rolled onto his right side, wincing when the movement pulled at the still-healing scar on his leg and he punched the mattress one more time for good measure.

"_Shit._"

* * *

Sleep came far too easily to Dean and with it came the vivid images often associated with fever dreams.

_He wakes up to find himself alone in the Impala. It's dark outside but he can make out tall shapes to his left and the tarmac shimmers in the light of the Impala's headlamps. He opens the door and pushes himself up, glancing over his shoulder when the squeaking of his baby's hinges cuts through the silence. The trunk slams shut behind him and he spins round to find himself face to face with..._

_"Sammy?"_

_His brother can't be older than thirteen and he's clutching a plastic crate stuffed to the brim with an assortment of fireworks. He grins at Dean, eyes sparkling from underneath his too-long bangs._

_"C'mon, let's go."_

_He jogs towards a clearing in the trees to his left, the plastic crate banging against his chest with every step and Dean pauses for a second, cocking his head to the side in confusion._

_"Weird dream..." _

_The crate is on the ground by the time Dean catches up, his little brother crouched over it as he selects two thin tubes from his arsenal. He turns and looks up as Dean approaches, leaves and twigs crunching under his boots._

_"Got your lighter?"_

_Dean pats the pockets of his leather jacket, his right hand brushing over something small and rectangular. He pulls it out, turning the silver zippo lighter over in his hands as he studies it disbelievingly. _

_"Woah... I haven't seen this in years."_

_"Fire 'em up."_

_Sam hands him one of the fireworks, holding the other one out so Dean can light the fuse and then they both raise the tubes above their heads and watch as the sky above them is filled with coloured sparks. Dean grins as the third cracker explodes in a shower of yellow._

_"I remember this... This is the 4th of July 1996."_

_He looks over at his little brother. Sam's still staring up at the display above the tree line but he turns and grins up at Dean as the last firework goes off with a loud bang._

_"Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean, this is great."_

_Sam flings his arms around Dean's waist, resting his head over his brother's heart and Dean hesitates before wrapping his arms around Sam's narrow shoulders and pulling him close until Sam finally pulls away. He grins up at his brother, his eyes twinkling and Dean can't help but grin back when Sam runs back towards the remaining fireworks. _

_"Fire in the hole!"_

_Sam sprints away from the lit fuses to where his brother is standing on the edge of the clearing and together they look up as the sky burst into a jumble of vivid colours. Sparks shower the ground in front of them, prompting Sam to move forwards until the specks of light surround him completely. He looks so happy and carefree spinning beneath the bursts of colour that Dean can't help but feel a little sad. He brushes it aside, focusing instead on the delight etched clearly on his little brother's face until movement on the far side of the clearing wrenches his attention away._

_He squints, trying to focus through the brightness of the display going on above him and he can just see the figure standing in the shadows of the imposing pines that surround them. Dean takes a step forwards and then another one, his eyes still trained on the spot behind a still twirling Sam He feels himself slowly grinding to a halt when their observer steps out of the shadows and Dean finds himself staring at... himself._

_"Sammy."_

_Dean calls to his brother and reaches beneath his leather jacket for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't take his eyes off of the mirror image staring back at him with nothing but hatred glinting in its cold green eyes and he draws his gun, letting his hand drop to his side after flicking off the safety. _

_"Sam, come here."_

_Sam stops spinning and looks at his brother, confusion washing over his features when he looks over his shoulder to the cluster of trees holding Dean's attention and sees nothing. He turns back, eyes zooming in on the pistol clutched tight in Dean's right hand._

_"Dean, there's nothing there."_

_Dean spins to face his little brother, agitation causing his brow to furrow as he jabbed his gun in the direction of his carbon copy._

_"What the hell d'you mean 'there's nothing there?' You seriously tellin' me you can't see that thing?"_

_Sam glances over his shoulder once more but the clearing is empty except for the two Winchesters. He turns and starts to walk tentatively towards from the trees. _

_"Sam, get back here, now!"_

_Dean takes off after his brother and wraps his fingers around Sam's bony wrist, tugging until Sam spins round to face him, his features contorted. _

_"What the hell, Sam? You never walk towards things when you don't have a clue what they are or what they're capable of." He lets Sam's arm drop and points towards the image of himself. "Especially when you're not carrying. You don't have a clue if that thing - " He breaks off when the figure flickers in the moonlight and dissipates, leaving just him and Sam in the clearing, and he closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before finishing lamely. " - Is dangerous..."_

_He feels Sam's fingers close around his, cool against the warmth of his skin and he opens his eyes to find his little brother watching him intently, worry replacing the gleeful twinkle in his young eyes. Dean forces a half smile and his gaze flickers back over the spot where his duplicate had vanished moments before._

_"I coulda sworn..."_

_He shakes his head and drops to a squat, rubbing his free hand over his face before resting his head in his palm and closing his eyes._

_"It's time to wake up, Dean."_

_Dean looks up in confusion. His brother is standing over him, his small hand still firmly clasped around Dean's larger one, and he smiles sadly, slowly uncurling his fingers from around his big brother's hand._

_"It's time to wake up, Dean."_

_Dean pushes himself up to his full height as Sam turns and starts to walk towards the trees. He pauses as he reaches the tree line, looking back over his shoulder for the final time and smiling before being swallowed by the shadows of the trees. His whispered farewell echoes in the clearing._

_"Wake up, Dean."_

* * *

Dean started awake when something cold and wet brushed against his left cheek and he pushed himself up on his right forearm, wiping at his eyes with his free hand as he tried clear some of the fuzziness from his vision. A plaid-covered arm was the first thing to come into focus and Dean flopped over onto his back, using both forearms to keep himself propped semi-upright while he squinted up at the owner of the checkered sleeve.

"Bobby..."

He winced and pushed lethargically at the heavy comforter, suddenly all too aware of the smothering waves of heat that were coming at him from every possible angle. A hand pressed against his chest, the palm cool through the cotton of his black undershirt, and he allowed himself to be pushed back against the pillow that had been plumped up and propped against the plain headboard behind him. A wet cloth was pressed to his forehead and he let his eyes slide shut, grimacing at the sharp pain in the back of his throat when he swallowed.

"Tryin' to smother yourself with your own pillow ain't lookin' like such a good idea now, is it?"

Dean raised two fingers in reply without opening his eyes and Bobby huffed, gently smacking the younger hunter's good leg before pushing himself up from his perch on the edge of the mattress. "Idjit..." He stretched, sighing in relief when the vertebrae in his lower back popped and the tension in the surrounding muscles eased. Dean's eyes stayed closed as Bobby tugged the comforter to the foot of the bed, leaving a thin sheet covering the lower half of Dean's body. He had a hand on the door handle when Dean rolled his head across the pillow, his eyes opening to show slits of green.

"Hey, Bobby?"

The hunter turned to face the bed, his hand resting on top of the brass handle as he waited for the kid to summon the energy to continue.

"'s Sammy okay?"

Bobby pulled at the brim of his cap, running a hand through the thinning strands on the top of his head.

"What makes you think he ain't?" Bobby leaned casually against the door frame and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his faded jeans. "You suddenly forget about the eighteen years I spent watchin' out for both of your sorry asses? S'not like I'm _incapable _of making sure your brother stays outta trouble for more than a couple minutes without you havin' to check up on me."

"Hmm..." The corner of Dean's mouth curled in amusement. "I had the weirdest dream, Bobby. Me an' Sammy, we let off a load of fireworks in this clearin'. Sam musta been about thirteen..." He paused, closing his eyes and swallowing thickly before continuing. "He set off about ten at once an' we jus' stood there watchin' the sparks fall."

The floorboards creaked and groaned as Bobby crossed the room and lowered himself onto the mattress. Dean's eyes stayed shut.

"Sammy, he loved it. Spent ages spinnin' round under all the sparks 'til this _thing_ appeared on th'other side of the clearin' an' I made him stop."

Dean's eyes fluttered open and he hesitated, playing with a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt.

"Sam couldn't see it, Bobby." Green eyes met Bobby's and the older hunter saw the uncertainty lurking behind the front used to hide his emotions. "The thing looked jus' like me; It jus' stood there, starin' back at me with these eyes an' Sammy kept sayin' there wasn't anythin' there."

Dean shivered and rolled onto his side. The movement dislodged the now-warm washcloth and Bobby frowned, pressing the back of his hand to Dean's forehead.

"Yeah, well, I think we can chalk the freaky dream and the doppelganger up to the fever." He pulled the sheet up over Dean's chest and pushed up, palms pressing down on his denim-clad thighs for leverage. "I'm gonna go get some Tylenol, see if we can't get that fever down a bit."

"I know what I saw, Bobby."

Bobby paused and ran his hand over his greying beard, considering the implications should there be more to Dean's dream than illness alone.

"Carbon copies, huh?"

He sighed and shook his head tiredly, unwillingly to start an argument over a dream he had no doubt was caused by Dean's rising temperature. Dean huffed softly, half asleep.

"Hmm..."

Bobby pulled the door to, checking that the sleeping hunter was visible through the narrow gap.

"Get some rest, kid."

* * *

Whew! That was a hell of a job getting the fireworks scene from 5.16 down word-for-word. I must have watched those two and a half minutes about 20 times today.

Please let me know what you think. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Sam looked up from his legal pad, tilting his pen back and forth between his thumb and index finger, watching as Bobby pushed the library door open and strode determinedly towards the haphazardly stacked pile of books he had set on the end of the worn coffee-coloured couch the day before. The first book, seemingly useless, was dropped to the floor unceremoniously, followed shortly by books two and three as Bobby flipped through stained pages, his finger running down the alphabetical indexes cataloguing the myths and legends of centuries past. Sam raised an eyebrow when book number four hit the floorboards with a resounding _thump_ and he let his pen drop on top of his scrawled notes.

"Everything okay?"

Bobby's eyes didn't stop scanning down the list.

"Yeah... You're brother mentioned somethin'. Thought I'd be best to check it out."

One of Bobby's cordless phones rang, the sound muffled by the distance between the library and its resting place in the den, and its owner looked up at the interruption. "_Balls..._" He marked his place in the book with a broken pencil and set it on the desk Sam had commandeered earlier.

"I better get that. 'S probably just the fever talkin', Sam, but we're better bein' safe than sorry an' all that. That idjit brother of yours could find trouble in an empty room."

Sam waited for Bobby's footsteps to fade before snagging a corner of the book's hardback cover and sliding it across the polished desk top. He glanced towards the door, listening carefully for the sound of Bobby's boots on the hardwood floor and once he was satisfied that he wasn't going to be caught, he opened the book at the marked page, eyes running down the list.

_Shapeshifter_

_Shojo_

_ Shtriga_

_Siren_

_Skinwalker_

There were no signs of what Bobby had been searching for so intently and Sam huffed in frustration, slamming the heavy book shut and shoving it away hard. It skidded across the desktop, coming to rest at the edge of the work-top where it wobbled ominously before falling to the floor with a loud thud and Sam cringed as the sound echoed along the hallway. Hearing footsteps approaching, he quickly busied himself with the Djinn research he'd offered to help with after Dean had stuck his foot in his mouth and realized far too late, in typical Dean fashion, that he'd spoken before thinking about the impact of words coming out of his mouth. He blinked hard, embarrassed that tears had come so easily and he sniffed, brushing at his eyes with the heel of his hand before Bobby came back and found him tearing up over Dean's deal again. Clearing his throat, he shuffled the loose sheets he'd torn from the notepad, setting them down to his left as Bobby's worn jeans appeared in the doorway. Bobby shook his head exasperatedly.

"Rufus Turner... Goddamn idjit." He looked towards his desk, frowning when it became apparent that his book wasn't where he'd left it. "What'd I do with that book?"

Sam glanced up beneath his bangs, making sure to keep his face neutral as he gestured towards the front of the desk.

"I, uh... It fell. Sorry, I was gonna pick it up." He trailed off, smiling sheepishly when the older hunter raised an eyebrow skeptically and bent down to retrieve the fallen codex, mumbling something scathing under his breath. Sam hesitated, dropping his head and tracing his finger over the elaborately-decorated text in front of him.

"I could help. Y'know, if you wanted me to." He shrugged, green eyes flicking up to find the older man's once more. This time he held Bobby's gaze. "I'm done with that Djinn research Caleb wanted."

Bobby gestured towards a thick green book with an intricate gold pattern on the spine that was perched precariously on the top of large pile. "Shifters..." He smirked, "Happy reading."

Sam's face contorted, brow furrowing in confusion. "What the hell do Shifters have to do with Dean?" He leaned forwards, pushing his weight down onto his forearms. "What's going on, Bobby?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "There's no need be gettin' all _dramatic_." He sighed when Sam scowled at him and lowered himself onto the corner of the desk across from the kid. "Like I said, 's probably nothing. Dean mentioned somethin' an' I wanted to check it out is all. Make sure it's nothin' we need to be worryin' about on top of everythin' else that's goin' on."

Sam sat back in the high-backed desk chair and folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What is it that you're not telling me?"

"Jesus, kid..." Bobby rubbed a palm over his stubble. "Fine... Me an' your brother took a little trip down memory lane while I was upstairs. He told me 'bout the time he took you into the woods an' you two idjits let off a load of fireworks. You were about thirteen an' you stood under the fallin' sparks, starin' up at them as they came down around you." He paused and looked up at Sam, his mouth twitching in a semblance of a smirk. "Ain't that sweet?" _  
_

"I still don't understand what this has to do with shapeshifters." Sam unfolded his arms and reached for his pen, tilting it back and forth between his thumb and first finger while the memory played over and over in his head. He shifted and moved on to clicking the spring mechanism button on the top of the pen.

"I remember setting off the fireworks; Dean stood back but I wanted to get closer." He let his thumb rest on top of plastic covering the spring. "There wasn't anyone else there, Bobby. I would've remembered if there had been."

"Yeah, well that's not what your brother's sayin'." Bobby rubbed his palms over the tops of his thighs. "He's adamant that there was somethin' else in that clearin' and that it looked exactly like him. Boy kept goin' on about how you couldn't see it." Bobby shrugged, "Make of that what you will, but at the risk of repeatin' myself, I'm gonna say that chances are it's nothin' we need to worry about."

"Right..." Sam looked up from his legal pad. "And if it is?"

Bobby tapped his index finger against leather-bound book next to his hip.

"Then we'll be ready for it."

Sam smiled. "Damn right."

* * *

A strip of light peeked hesitantly from behind the heavy curtains when Dean opened his eyes for the third time that day. He shivered and pushed himself up on one arm, kicking the thin cotton sheet down to the bottom of the bed. He swung his legs over the side, his eyes snapping shut when the sudden change in height left his head spinning and he groaned, letting his head drop to rest in the palm of his hand. His jeans had been folded neatly and hung over the back of the white antique rocking chair in the corner, a family heirloom that Karen Singer had once planned on sitting in while she rocked her children to sleep; It looked almost spectral in the weak winter sunlight, a ghostly memorial to Bobby Singer's late wife and the children they would never have, and Dean suddenly felt as though he was intruding on one of Bobby's most private and intimate memories.

He shook his jeans out and stepped into them, bracing himself against the wall with a forearm when his bad knee shook under the strain of taking his full weight. He zipped his fly, pulling his black t-shirt out of the waistband where it had gotten tucked in. His leg was stiff from lack of use, the extra hours spent tucked up in Bobby's spare room leaving him trying to walk without bending his right knee a fraction more than he could get away with and the air was turned blue as his leg threatening to buckle once more. He reached out to steady himself and his hand met with thin air, sending him sprawling against the foot of the bed in an undignified heap.

_"Damnit..."_

Dean swallowed and winced, holding his hands up until he found his balance. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and took a stumbling step forwards, fingertips brushing against the textured wallpaper as he followed the camber of the long narrow hallway towards the staircase. The smooth polished wood of banister was cool beneath his sticky palms and he leaned heavily on it as he eased his stiff leg down the narrow staircase one step at a time, pausing halfway to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead and upper lip. He lowered himself to sit on the bottom step and gingerly stretched his right leg out in front of him, cocking his head when his attention was drawn to voices coming from the room Bobby referred to as _the library. _

"I don't think that thing was a shifter." His little brother was insistent and Dean shifted slightly, angling his body to better hear what was being said.

"What makes you say that?"

"There are several things that don't fit with it being a shapeshifter; For starters, shifters aren't able to dream walk, so unless this is some sort of new hybrid that we don't know about, the fact that it appeared in a dream makes it highly unlikely, if not impossible, for - " The sound of something heavy being dropped drowned out the end of Sam's justification and Dean felt a sudden spark of anger igniting within his chest. His hands curled into fists and he forced himself to take a steadying breath before pushing himself to his feet as Sam's voice resonated through the narrow hallway once more.

"Then there's the other thing you said, about Dean being the only one who could see this thing? We've dealt with shifters before, Bobby. None of them had the ability to choose who could see them and who couldn't, and there's no evidence in any of these books to suggest that's ever been the case."

Dean paused, hidden by the long shadows that stretched along the passageway and shrouded it in darkness. A thin beam of light sidled around the edge of the door and Dean crept around it, pressing his body against the wall and letting his aching head come to rest against the doorframe. From his vantage point he could see his little brother leaning over an open book, pointing at something on the page as Bobby scanned the passage from where he sat behind the cluttered workspace.

"_Balls_... If it ain't a shifter, Sam, then what the hell is it? We're not even sure that this thing actually exists. For all we know it could be the fever messin' with the kid's head and makin' him see shit that ain't really there." Bobby paused, his sharp eyes focussing on the dark hallway beyond the gap in the doorway. He leaned back in his chair and raised his voice.

"You plannin' on standin' there all night, boy, or are you gonna grace us with your presence?"

Sam turned to face the door as it swung open and his brother limped into the library, leaning heavily against the solid bookcases that lined the walls as he slowly made his way to the worn sofa next to Bobby's desk.

"What are you doing up?" Sam cleared a space on the couch, setting the books on the floor where Dean wouldn't accidentally trip over them before focussing his sights on the beads of sweat dotting his brother's forehead as he lowered himself onto the chair and sank into the squashy seat cushions behind him. Dean scowled and flapped a hand in his brother's direction.

"Don't mind me." He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, wincing when the movement magnified the tenderness of his throat tenfold every time he swallowed. "By all means, pretend I'm not here and carry on with your little pow-wow; I'm dyin' to hear more about this shapeshifter you _think_ I'm pretendin' to see."

Sam's face twisted. "We never said - "

Dean rolled his head over the top of the seat cushion and gazed tiredly at his little brother. "Just forget it, Sam. I'm bein' a dick..." He flapped an apologetic hand at his brother and rubbed at his hot eyes. He hesitating, brow furrowed as though he was trying to think of what to say but words didn't come. He shook his head after a few seconds as if he was shaking himself out of a daydream and he leaned forwards, pushing himself up on visibly shaky arms. "I'm goin' back to bed." He limped towards the door, bracing himself against the doorframe and pivoting round to face the older man when he felt a pair of eyes boring a hole into the back of his skull.

"Hey, Bobby, you wanna come tuck me in, read me a bedtime story?" He raised an eyebrow suggestively, smirking at the scowl that flashed across Bobby's face.

"I've got a good mind to put you over my knee, boy, twenty-six or not. Now get your sorry ass back in bed before I change my mind about not tannin' your backside."

Dean rolled his eyes at Bobby's threats and shuffled back towards the entrance to the hallway. He grimaced when his knee twisted too far and then buckled under the pressure, his knuckles white against the dark wood of the doorframe where he gripped it to stop himself going down.

_"Shit..."_

Dean flinched when Sam's fingers curled around his right wrist unexpectedly and he shivered beneath the coolness of his brother's touch as his arm was draped over Sam's broad shoulders. He scowled, huffing in protest when Sam's cold hand brushed against the bare skin above the waistband of his jeans before hooking through one of his belt loops.

"Jesus, Sam. Your hands are freezing."

Sam snorted and tugged on his brother's jeans, pulling him away from the wall.

"Sorry, man, but I'm pretty sure that's all you. You ready to move or do you need a minute?"

Dean nodded. "Lead the way, sasquatch..." He gingerly shifted his weight onto his sore leg, allowing Sam to hold him up when the overtaxed joint collapsed under the strain and twisted painfully. His eyes slammed shit, hands curling into fists as the edges of his vision greyed out and his left arm flailed, his knuckles colliding with something reassuringly solid. Hands pressed against his face and he was suddenly aware of fingers being pressed against the side of his neck.

"Get off me, Bobby..."

Dean shook his head irritably and the older hunter huffed.

"Well, 'scuse me for carin' about what happens to your sorry ass. Next time I'll jus' let you face plant."

He pried Dean's fingers off of the wall and ducked under his arm, the muttered protests wearing away at his patience.

"Now you listen to me, boy. I don't give a rat's ass whether you want my help or not, so do us all a favour, keep your mouth shut an' concentrate on getting your ass up those stairs before I give you somethin' good an' proper to bitch about. You hear me?"

Dean swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Okay then," Bobby nodded. "Get movin'." He wrapped his arm around the small of Dean's back and nudged him forwards.

* * *

The staircase was too narrow for the three men to climb side-by-side and the slow procession ground to a halt in front of the bottom step. Sam glanced across at his brother's pale, sweaty face and he shifted under Dean's weight, readjusting his hold on his brother's jeans as Dean's eyelids fluttered.

"How do you want to do this?"

He jostled his brother's shoulder. "Hey, no sleeping."

"Would you quit it?" Dean scowled as Sam poked him in the side. "I'm trying to think."

"Yeah, well maybe you could hurry it up a little bit?" Sam grimaced as the small muscles his lower back protested at being stooped over and he leaned closer to his brother, making sure to lower his voice. "Seriously, man, do you need me to carry - "

"Why don't I go see if I can find some ice while you boys figure somethin' out?" Bobby interrupted, slipping out from under Dean's arm but keeping his hand wrapped around the boy's wrist. "You got him, Sam?"

"Uh, yeah... Thanks, Bobby." Sam turned to look at his brother. "So, Dean, what's it gonna be?"

"Since when did you get so bossy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Since when did you get so short? Million dollar question, walk or carry?"

Dean huffed and glanced up at the top of the stairs. He reached for the handrail and hoisted himself up onto the first step.

Sam nodded. "Okay. Walking it is."

* * *

Dean braced himself against Sam, grateful for the extra support as he slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of his bed. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and watched as his brother leaned back on his elbows, gaze fixed firmly on a spot past his feet as he contemplated his next move.

"You'd be better off getting changed." Dean blinked at him. "So you can ice your knee? C'mon, the quicker you do it, the quicker you can lie down."

Dean held out his hand and Sam wrapped his fingers around his brother's wrist, gently pulling him to his feet. He waited until the denim had been pushed down over Dean's thighs.

"Sit down before you fall. I got it."

The material pooled at Dean's ankles as he eased the faded denim over the swollen joint and he sat back on his heels, his long fingers gently probing the tissue around the angry-looking scars. Dean flopped back onto the mattress.

"I don't think you've done any permanent damage." His brother's breath hitched as Sam hit a tender spot. "Sorry... Ice and Ibuprofen should sort it. Up..."

He lifted his brother's legs up onto the mattress and shoved the pillow from his bed under Dean's knee.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked up from where he was folding his brother's jeans over the rocking chair in the corner.

"Could you grab my painkillers?"

Sam nodded. "Uh, sure... You want the Paracetamol as well as the Ibuprofen?" He crossed the room in five fluid steps.

"No, the other stuff. The Oxytocin... Oxycontin... Whatever that shit's called."

"Oxycodone. Dean, if the pain's bad enough that you need opiates to get some sleep then you need to be going back to see the doctor."

Sam studied his brother, who was lying with his right arm flung over his eyes. "You look like shit."

Dean snorted. "Thanks... Still look better than you."

Sam grinned and shook his brother's ankle as he walked past the bed. "Keep telling yourself that. One day it just might come true."

Dean raised a middle finger and Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's obscene gesture. He reached for the rumpled sheet at the bottom of Dean's bed and tugged it over his brother.

"Hey." His eyes swept over the bare skin of Dean's neck. "Where's your amulet?"

Dean squinted up at him from under his forearm. "The cord snapped. Charm's in my wallet."

"When did that happen?" Sam motioned at his brother to shift over on the bed and sat in the space at Dean's knee.

Dean frowned. "Uh, Wednesday, maybe? When did Bobby ask us to run those errands?"

"It was Friday, actually." Dean glared up at him. "But that's not... Go on."

"I went to pick up those herbs Bobby ordered and this little kid came running out of the store after me." Dean swallowed. "Kid was kinda cute - like a six-year-old Judy Garland with the bunches and the blue dress, y'know? Except she was missin' the red shoes... She called me 'Mister'." He grinned and then looked up, his features twisting at the bewilderment on his brother's face. "_What?_"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Judy Garland?" His eyes widened comically and pushed himself up off the bed, spinning round to point an accusing finger at Dean's chest. "You were watching _The Wizard of Oz_ last week, weren't you?" He grinned at the splotches of pink dusting Dean's cheeks. "I _knew_ you hadn't 'fallen asleep' in front of the TV."

Sam chuckled and walked towards the door, shaking his head as Dean sputtered indignantly.

"The _Wizard of Oz_ is a timeless classic..."

Sam turned in the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

"You said the same thing about _Busty Asian Beauties_."

* * *

"Have you found anything yet?"

Sam set his glass of water on the wooden table top and sat down across from Bobby. The older man glanced up and shook his head before pushing the faded manuscript he had been studying into the middle of the work top.

"Nope. Still got squat." He pulled at the peak of his hat. "Dean asleep?"

Sam sipped at his water. "Yeah. He took one of the Oxycodone and passed out. He'll probably be out for a while so I'm gonna head back, get a start on that translation for Rufus. Unless you need me to help you with something?" His eyes searched Bobby's face.

Bobby leaned back in his chair and tapped a finger against his notepad. "Yeah, I got something I need help with; Tell me why this doppelganger your brother's been seein' is buggin' me so much."

Sam frowned. "I thought we agreed that whatever Dean saw, or thinks he saw, doesn't exist outside of his dream, hallucination - whatever... We haven't found anything to back up what he's told you." He rubbed a finger over his eyebrow and dropped his head onto his palm.

Bobby pushed his chair back and the legs scraped loudly against the kitchen tiles. He walked across to the counter and flipped the switch on the kettle, pulling a jar of coffee from the cupboard to his left.

"Maybe we need to look at this from a different angle." He spooned granules into mismatched mugs. "You boys noticed anyone actin' screwier than Courtney Love over the last coupl'a days?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, the turned wooden slats digging into the points of his shoulder blades as he tried to cast his mind back.

"There's nothing that I can think of off the top of my head, Bobby."

Bobby nodded and turned away when the kettle clicked off. He poured boiling water into the mugs and stirred.

"I ain't got any of that flavoured shit." He put the mug down in front of Sam and shrugged. "Sorry... Why don't you run through everythin' you two've done the last few days? See if we can't jog your memory. Where we you two idjits on Wednesday?" He looked at Sam expectantly.

"Sioux Falls. Dean had a follow-up appointment with the orthopedic surgeon."

Bobby tapped his spoon against the ceramic mug handle. "Anybody at the clinic peak your interest? Was there any way someone could have gotten close enough to slip somethin' into either of your pockets?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "Bobby, the woman sitting next to us was 90 if she was a day."

Bobby shrugged. "You know that appearances don't mean shit in our business. I mean, think about it, Sam. Who would suspect a sweet, fragile, little old lady? You're sure there was no way she could'a dropped somethin' in Dean's pockets?"

Sam shook his head, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the cup in front of him. "No, the way the chairs were laid out meant Dean didn't get within touching distance. She would have had to lean over me to get to him or distract us in some way as Dean walked past to be able to do something like that without either of us noticing." He paused. "And anyways, I turned Dean's pockets out after we got home; There was nothing in them apart from the key to the ammo locker in the Impala and his lighter." Sam shrugged apologetically and ran his index finger over rim of his coffee mug.

"Thursday?"

"Research. We never left the house."

Bobby nodded and let the spoon slide from his grip onto the table, the corners of his mouth twitching when the loud metallic clattering causing Sam to look up sharply. "Friday, you boys went into town, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. We split up; I went to the library and Dean went to that Wiccan place on West 9th. He didn't mention anything when we met up at the car." He dug the heels of his hands into hollows of his eye sockets, and pushed his hair back off of his face, his hands coming to rest on the back of his neck. The skin was smooth beneath his palms and he heard Dean's voice in his head. _'Kid was kinda cute - like a six year old Judy Garland...'_

"Wait..."

Bobby glanced up.

"What if there was no need to get close? What if they took something instead?"

* * *

So, what do you think? Is it worth continuing with?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _Italics__ indicate dreams/hallucinations/visions_.

**A/N 2:** Would anyone be interesting in Beta-ing future chapters for me? Every time I read through what I've written I find a new mistake. :o

I'm more than willing to return the favor. :)

**Warning:** Spoilers for end of season 4. Language and nudity.

I'm not sure about the way the story cuts back and forth between Sam, Dean and Bobby. I think it needed to otherwise the chain of events wouldn't have been very clear. Opinions welcome as to whether or not it works.

* * *

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Care to share your theory with the rest of the class, Sam?"

"Dean said that the cord on his amulet snapped while he was in the store. I noticed that he wasn't wearing it earlier and he said that a kid, a little girl, had come running out after him with the charm." Sam paused. "She didn't give him the cord back, Bobby. Dean's been wearing that amulet since he was twelve years old and I'm betting that whoever took the cord is has something to do with this thing Dean's been seeing."

Bobby pushed himself up, crossing to counter behind Sam. "That makes more sense than it bein' a shifter." He dumped his cold coffee in the sink.

"'Course the main question is who'd be desperate enough to mess with your brother's head that they'd steal that thin' from right under his nose?"

Bobby dropped his mug in the empty sink and leaned back against the counter facing Sam, who had swivelled round in his chair. "The woman who owns the Wiccan place is a friend of a friend. Her husband was a hunter so if there was anythin' in that shop that took a fancy to Dean, she's more than likely to have picked up on it." He tapped a finger against the counter "So why didn't she?"

He looked out of the kitchen window into the salvage yard, watching as the weak winter sunlight glinted off of the wreckers piled high around the house in long systematic rows.

"It's still pretty early so I'm gonna head into Sioux Falls, see if she remembers anythin' that could point us in the general direction of what we're dealin' with. I take it you're gonna be stayin' here an' keepin' an eye on Sleepy Beauty?"

Sam nodded. "Uh, yeah... I mean, there's not really anything we can do research-wise until you talk to the shop owner and you don't really need me there while you do that." He pushed the chair back and stood, crossing the room in three fluid steps until he was standing next to Bobby and rinsing the dregs from his cup. "I could probably have that translation finished by the time you get back so we can concentrate on trying to figure out what this thing is and how we get rid of it."

"Yeah, well you better hope she seen somethin'." Bobby pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and headed towards the back door, snatching a set of keys from the row of hooks on the wall as he passed. "Otherwise we might as well jus' 'fess up to the fact that we don't know _shit _an' we prob'ly never will."

* * *

Sam stretched, arching his back and raising his arms high above his head after pushing away the script that he'd just finished translating. The long, late afternoon shadows that had been steadily creeping over the library's scratched wooden floor had melted into darkness in the hours he'd spent hunched over the elaborately decorated text and the carnival glass lamp he had clicked on before starting work was now the only source of light in the room. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his tired eyes and yawned, blinking away the cobwebs that threatened to cloud his vision. He stood, sending the leather office chair rolling back on it's coasters and rolled his head, sighing in relief when the vertebrae popped and the tension in his neck from sitting hunched over the desktop eased noticeably. The translation, hastily scribbled over several sheets of college-ruled A4, was dropped on the top of the already-overflowing letter tray that sat on the bookcase behind Bobby's desk and Sam crossed to the door, heading straight for the stairs and the room he'd been sharing with his brother.

He poked his head around the door of the guest room. Dean was asleep, sprawled messily over the mattress on his front, the pillow intended to support his swollen knee clutched to his chest, and Sam carefully edged his way through the gap between the solid oak-paneled door and the doorframe. His sock-clad feet padded gently against the hardwood flooring as he crossed to the plain chest-of-drawers across from his brother's bed and eased the drawer out on its runner, grabbing a clean pair of boxers from the top of neatly folded pile inside. His sleep clothes were folded at the top of his bed and he crept forwards, cringing when the floorboard creaked, the noise obscenely loud against the stillness of the room.

Sam paused, watching for the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest. Dean slept on, oblivious to the movement around him. Grabbing his t-shirt and grey sweatpants, Sam turned towards the door and hopped gracefully over the squeaky board between the twin beds, stilling once more as Dean twitched in his sleep and wrapped the comforter tighter around himself.

Sam shut the door to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and dropping his clean clothes on top of the wicker laundry basket in the corner. Leaning over the peach-coloured tub, he flipped the temperature water pressure dials to full and pulled the translucent plastic curtain across the rail just above his head when the spray from the shower head splashed over the side of the bath. He closed the lid of the toilet after shedding his thin cotton t-shirt and jeans and sat down, basking in the warmth of the steam that billowed around the small room, wrapping itself comfortingly around him and soothing the aching muscles all the way up his spine.

Sam glanced down at his watch. Unable to put off moving any longer, he pushed himself up and stepped out of his dark blue boxer shorts, leaving them in a pile next to the laundry hamper before pulling the shower curtain back and ducking under the scalding spray.

* * *

_The room was shrouded in darkness when Dean came to, the only light a solitary strip __from the illuminated hallway that _peeked hesitantly around the door. _He was lying on his front in bed, his right hand tucked beneath his head in place of his pillow and his left hand twitched, fingers brushing against the side of the bed frame, and then above it something soft - the sheet. He kept his eyes shut and swallowed, the irritation in the back of his throat making him flinch._

_An electrifying tingle ran down the back of his neck and h__e made sure to keep his breathing even, his face neutral. _

_Breathe in, breathe out, in and out. Listen carefully._

_"Now, now, Dean..." The voice was contemptuous, the distinctive jilted speech pattern prompting Dean's eyes to fly open, and he pushed himself upright, heart beating wildly against his ribcage as he stared in horror at the dark figure perched on the swaying rocking chair the corner of the room. _

_"Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to ignore someone when they're talking to you? __Oh, I forgot..._" The man paused and smiled cruelly. "Silly me."  


_"No... No, no, no..." Dean blinked stupidly at him and then squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't be here - we_ _killed you... The Colt - " _

_Azazel smiled. __"A plus, Dean." He_ spread his arms, his yellow eyes shining brightly in contrast to the darkness of the room as he stepped out of the shadows. " And yet here I am." _He smirked._ "In the flesh, as it were."

_Dean shuddered and swallowed hard, his words cracking painfully as he raised his voice, praying that someone - anyone - could hear him. "This isn't real. You're not real." _

_The house remained silent below them and Azazel crowed in delight. "Ah, Dean... Some things never change." He leaned casually against the chest of drawers across from Dean's bed and regarded him evenly. "All I want is to have a little chat, just you and me. About Sam."_

_Dean's eyes flickered to the demon's face, his forehead creasing in confusion. "Why? Why would you want to talk to me about my brother?" He slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, hoping that the movement was enough to conceal his hand fumbling under the mattress for his knife. His hand wrapped around something oval shaped, the metal cool beneath his fevered skin and he pushed himself up off of the bed, discreetly tucking the knife into the waistband of his shorts. "What do you want?"_

_"I don't want anything from you, Dean; Consider this a courtesy call of sorts, if you will." The demon smirked. "You see, there have been rumors circulating in hell, whispers about Lilith's plans for little Sammy Winchester, the boy with the demon blood." The smirk morphed into a full-on grin. "__Don't you get it, Dean?"_

_The yellow-eyed demon chuckled at the bewildered expression on Dean's face and took three steps forwards, his rotten breath hot against Dean's cheek as he leaned forwards to whisper gleefully in the hunter's ear. _

_"Your brother's going to be the one who frees Lucifer from hell."_

_Azazel smirked and took a step back, lowering himself onto Sam's precisely made bed. He tenderly ran his long fingers over the bobbled blanket that had been neatly folded over the footboard. "You see, Dean, your daddy knew." His yellow eyes flicked upwards. "You remember the little conversation you had in the hospital, don't you? Your daddy told you to kill your baby brother if you couldn't stop him. Wise words from a man who'd just condemned himself to an eternity burning in Hell."_

_Dean swallowed hard and shut his eyes, his own words to Sam echoing in his ears. _

_'Before Dad died, he told me something... Something about you. He told me that I had to save you, that nothin' else mattered and that if I couldn't, I'd... That I'd have to kill you. He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy...'_

_"So, Dean..." The demon morphed into a leather-clad version of himself - an exact copy, from the delicate freckles dusted over its cheekbones right down to the knife that was moving fluidly in and around its fingers as the thing sitting in front of him twirled it ominously. I__ts green eyes flashed cruelly as it tilted its head to look up at him._ "What's it gonna be?" 

Dean jerked awake, his heart hammering in his chest as he pushed himself upright in the bed and flicked the switch on the lamp next to him, flooding the room with orange light; It was empty and Dean shut his eyes in relief, and took a deep breath before bringing a shaking hand up to cup his head. Another nightmare. He fumbled for the blue comforter covering his lower half and flung it to one side, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and dropping his head to rest in his hands as he took another shaky breath. It took several minutes for the sound of his heart beating to fade into the background and he climbed unsteadily to his feet, leaning heavily against the mattress until he was sure his legs would hold him.

He let his fingers brush against the faded wallpaper as he limped along the narrow corridor towards the tiny guest bathroom at the end of the hall and his gaze swept over the strip of light peeking out from the gap beneath the locked door. He could hear the roar of water as it bounced off of the porcelain tub behind it.

Dean turned back towards the staircase, shaking his head wearily and silently cursing Sam and his sudden compulsive need for privacy.

* * *

Sam felt for the pressure dial behind his back and nudged it off with his hip, pushing the dripping hair away from his eyes as the spray above him was suddenly reduced to a series of intermittent drips. Pushing the shower curtain back, he reached for the fluffy white bath sheet he'd set on the counter next to the sink and stepped over the lip of the bath, rubbing the cotton towel over his head to get the worst of the wet from his hair before toweling himself off and wrapping the cotton sheet around his waist.

Bending down, he scooped the dirty clothes up from where he'd dropped them idly, rolling his shorts and cotton t-shirt up inside his jeans before dumping the soiled items in the wicker laundry hamper. Waving a hand to disperse the thick clouds of steam around him, he crossed to the small window above the toilet and pushed it open, the faded wooden frame sticking stubbornly before suddenly giving into the movement with squeal of protest. A blast of cold air swept around the small room, teasing at the loose end of Sam's towel, wrapping itself around the contours of his body and making him shiver, his bare skin erupting into a sea of goosebumps.

Sam let the towel drop from around his waist and reached across the room for the clean pair of boxers sitting on top of the wicker hamper in the corner. He stepped into his shorts, adjusting the position of the elastic waistband sitting uncomfortably high on hips and pulling his sleep shirt up over his head. He batted at a loose strand of hair as he bent down to pull the grey fleece-lined sweats up over his hips, stretching forwards to grab the wet towel from the floor as he pushed himself upright and flicked the lock on the door back to the open position. Steam brushed past him, dense, billowing clouds that charged almost desperately into the coolness of the dark hallway when the door to the bathroom swung open and Sam emerged, squinting until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The worn floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he crept along the narrow corridor towards the guest room and he pushed the door open slightly before slipping around it fluidly and padding softly across the threshold. Dean's bed was empty, the sheet and the comforter rumpled in a messy heap near the bottom of the mattress and Sam paused, holding his breath as he listened for the sounds of his brother moving around the old house below him.

The pipes groaned as someone turned the taps on in the kitchen and Sam relaxed, letting the breath out slowly before shuffling across to the rocking chair in the corner of the room. He dropped the wet towel on the floor by his feet and picked up the pair of jeans he'd hung over the back of the chair earlier, intending to fold them and set them on the seat so Dean could wear them again. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Sam spun around, instinctively bringing his hands up in front of his face, just as his dad had taught him all those years ago. Something soft brushed against his shoulder, the touch sending adrenaline rushing around his body and he huffed, adrenaline replaced with sheer relief at the sight of the flimsy dark blue curtains that framed the window to his left billowing in the wind. He studied the open window and then shrugged, deciding that Dean must have opened it before going downstairs, when the floorboard behind him groaned. He turned and looked up, his brow creasing in confusion at the sight of his brother standing in front of him, fully dressed.

"Why are you dressed? Did Bobby call while I was in the shower?"

Dean smiled at him, his green eyes glinting unusually coldly in the warmth of the orange glow from the spotlight shining in through the open window. "I thought you an' me could take a little drive before Bobby gets back."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, stopping abruptly when his gaze was drawn to the familiarly worn pair of jeans clinging to the muscles in his brother's legs and his heart beat a little faster in his chest. He looked up, his jaw set defiantly.

"You're not my brother."

The thing smirked. "Not quite."

It's fist connected with Sam's temple.

* * *

In the kitchen Dean ran the cold tap, cupping his hands under it and splashing frigid water over his face as the old pipes groaned and spluttered. The water did little to wash away the remnants of his nightmare, leaving him gasping and stooped over the stainless steel sink as the biting cold stole at the air in his lungs. Grimacing, Dean fumbled for the half-empty bottle of Jack on the countertop and brought it to his lips, coughing when the amber liquid left a burning trail in its wake. He paused, realizing too late that alcohol and painkillers did not mix well and then shrugged because, actually, he was already too far gone to care, his body weary from illness and the never-ending reel of vivid images that haunted his dreams.

Glancing out of the window at the salvage yard that surrounded the house, Dean watched as light from the crescent moon glinted off of the sleek curves of the Impala where it sat in solitude, away from the mountains of wreckers that were piled around the lot. Above him, the sound of running water stopped and he dragged his attention away from the muscle car, his eyes following his brother's movements as he inched along the hallway above Dean's head, Sam's exact location disclosed by the floorboards that groaned under his weight. Dean pushed himself away from the counter, rubbing a hand over the stubble that coated his chin and he stifled a yawn as he shuffled out of the shadowy kitchen. He paused on the third step of the staircase, brow furrowing when the murmuring above him stopped abruptly and the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor echoed along the hallway overhead. He cocked his head to one side, ears pricked.

"Sammy?"

Silence.

Dean leaned heavily on the banister as he pushed himself up the stairs a little faster, ignoring the ache that flared behind his kneecap with every shaky step. He crept along the hallway, cursing the creaky floorboards beneath his feet and he paused by the door, flattening his body against the wall before peering through the gap into the room.

He pushed the door open with his foot and waited, listening intently. The room remained silent behind him and he slipped through the gap between the door and the frame, checking the space behind the door before he moved into the middle of the room. An eery orange glow washed over the twin beds from the streetlamp beyond the towering piles of scrapped cars and Dean paused, his eyes flickering between the open window and the towel that had been left in a heap by the leg of the rocking chair in the corner. He stooped and brushed a hand over the soft cotton, frowning at the dampness of the cloth beneath his fingers.

Dean pushed himself up and turned to the chest-of-drawers on his left, yanking the top drawer out and feeling underneath it for the shotgun he'd stashed there six weeks ago. The metal was cold against his palms and he pressed a rock salt cartridge into the loading tube, pushing down on the guides until the cursor sprang back and the cartridge held steady. He repeated the process with four more rounds and snapped the breech block shut, flipping the safety on.

Slamming the drawer shut, Dean lowered the weapon and turned towards the door, slipping his silver-bladed knife from beneath his mattress as he passed his bed.

"Sammy?"

He limped towards the staircase, checking rooms on his way past.

"I swear to God, Sam, I'll kick your ass into next year if you're screwin' with me."

The house remained silent and Dean eased himself down the first step, his knuckles pale against the dark wood of the banister.

"_Damnit_, Sam... Where the hell are you?"

* * *

Bobby Singer's knuckles were a similar colour, wrapped tightly around the cracked leather of the steering wheel in his pick-up and he pressed down on the accelerator a little harder, his eyes scanning the long winding road ahead for sherif's officers lying in wait as the needle on the speedometer nudged 75 and then continued around the sweeping arc. He braked heavily as the pick-up entered a tight bend, correcting when the rear wheels slid on the slick tarmac beneath them and his eyes darted across the bench seat to the name flashing on the screen of his cell phone when it vibrated, painting the inside of the cab a vibrant shade of blue. Rufus Turner. He ignored it and gunned the engine.

Gravel flew up from behind pick-up as Bobby turned into Singer Salvage without slowing. He braked harshly in front of the house, grimacing as the truck slide several feet across the frozen ground before grinding to a halt inches from the Impala's rear fender and he hauled himself out of the cab, pulling the key from the ignition as he slid from the seat. The door handle was frozen, the cold metal burning his sensitive underside of his bare hand as he pushed it down and shouldered his way past the front door. The long hallway was dark and he shrugged out of his winter coat, draping it over the sideboard as he passed it on his way into the den. Something clicked softly behind him and Bobby paused, turning slowly and squinting through the shadows at the figure pointing a shotgun at his chest. He scowled and reached for the light switch.

"'The hell are you playin' at, boy?"

Light flooded the den and Bobby took a step towards where Dean was stood in the doorway that lead through the kitchen. The kid shivered slightly in the coolness of the room and Bobby glanced down at the thin cotton undershirt and boxer shorts he wore before his gaze was drawn to the splotches of hot pink high on Dean's cheekbones. He raised a disapproving eyebrow.

"You wanna go put some clothes on instead'a pointing that thing at me?"

Dean ignored him and reached for the silver dagger he had tucked into the waistband of his shorts. He threw it on the floor at Bobby's feet and tilted his chin. "You know the drill." He took a step forwards, keeping the shotgun aimed steadily at the older man's chest as Bobby rolled up the sleeve of his checkered shirt and bent down to retrieve the knife.

The skin below his elbow streaked with scarlet.

"You happy now?"

Bobby glanced up as Dean lowered the shotgun and took several faltering steps forwards, still eyeing him warily. Bobby nodded in approval.

"Good, 'cause I - "

He froze, squeezing his eyes shut as holy water dripped from the peak of his hat and rolled under the collar of his undershirt. He blinked and scrubbed the heel of his hand across his wet cheeks before looking stonily at the Dean, who seemed to sag in relief.

"Thank God..."

Dean stumbled forwards and dropped the empty plastic jug, grabbing onto the collar of Bobby's shirt with clammy hands.

"_Bobby, Sam's gone_."

* * *

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